I need to talk to Hope so bad it feels like a splinter in my brain. I don’t know if I can apologize to a known Dean Dater, but when I see her parents get in her mom’s Jeep and pull out of their driveway, it’s like my feet carry me over there on their own. I picture her snuggled under a blanket with the latest Laini Taylor book. In the kitchen feeding slivers of cheese to Eponine. Stretching for a run.
I do not picture her kissing my brother.
I’m bounding up the steps and about to touch the door handle, when I see them behind the screen door, standing in the middle of her living room, completely oblivious to the fact that I am frozen and can’t look away.
It’s the kind of kiss you don’t expect anyone to see. A hungry, fly-across-the-room-the-second-the-parents-drive-away mauling of a kiss. I’ve never actually kissed anyone before, but of these things I am certain.
Dean’s hands are running all over her—like her body is territory and everywhere he touches is a flag staked down that says Claimed by Dean Barton. Shoulders. Legs. The small of her back. Her perfect collarbones, his fingertips tracing the tan lines, like I’ve always daydreamed about doing. He traces them again, just on the right side this time, only his fingers don’t stop when they hit her shirt. He runs them under the edge of her tank top where it scoops low across her chest. He moves by degrees, maybe because he’s scared she’ll stop him if he goes too fast. Maybe because her shirt is tight against her body and he’s having trouble wedging his hand in there.
And then his whole hand is inside, cupping her, touching her. She moans into his mouth, and the sound of it, sweet merciful Lord, my body nearly explodes. Oh, man, what it would be like to have her moan like that because of something I did.
He kisses her jaw now, and her neck. Her eyes are closed. Her mouth half open. His kisses trail lower. Her collarbone. The top of one breast. And oh, holy crap, I manage to get myself together and turn my head away just as he pops her boob out of her shirt. It’s the thing that really snaps me out of it. It’s not okay for me to see that part of her unless she chooses to show it to me herself. I wouldn’t even want to.
I sneak down off the porch. I also have to sneak back into my own house because Pam is doing some kind of craft project involving mason jars, and I’d rather not explain to my stepmom why I am comically hard right now. Ugh. I feel like I have no control over anything right now, even my own body.
When I finally get back to my room and get the door shut safely behind me, I’m shaking all over. An image of his hand down her shirt flashes in my mind, and I feel like there are holes in all of my important organs.
I wouldn’t even know what to do.
If she was standing in my room right now in those cut-off shorts. Kissing me—an absolute mauling of a kiss.
I’d be lucky if I could remember how to breathe, let alone figure out where to put my hands. Dean gets all these girls without even trying. One after another after another, through the revolving door of his bedroom window. He has never wondered where to put his hands.
I try to imagine her now, but he’s all I can see. Damn it! How does he ruin everything?
I’m not entirely sure how it happens, but I realize there is a crater-shaped hole in the wall in front of me and my hand hurts really effing bad. I’m gonna have a fun time explaining this one.
FROM: [email protected]
DATE: Oct 11, 5:25 PM
SUBJECT: Good morning, Baltimore
Hey Hope!
Are you ready for our Skype movie date this Friday? I’m thinking Hairspray, circa 1988 or Hairspray, circa 2007. You pick!
Janie
P.S.—I’m so glad you and Spencer made up! ________________________________________________
FROM: [email protected]
TO: janie.m[email protected]
DATE: Oct 11, 6:58 PM
SUBJECT: Re: Good morning, Baltimore
Hey! I am so ready it’s not even funny, and I choose John Travolta cross-dressing, OBVIOUSLY. (Side note: Can you believe this girl at school, Tabitha, thinks Grease 2 is better than the original? WTH.)
And, thanks. I was so nervous, but everything turned out fine. I really feel like he listened to what I had to say.
Also! I have to tell you this thing that happened at school because it definitely can’t wait till Friday. I think Spencer might be cool now. I mean, I don’t care, and I don’t think he cares (he’s so angry lately, it’s hard to tell). But maybe his dad cares. I don’t know. It’s complicated.
Anyway. So you know how Spencer sometimes gets stuck on certain words? Well, we were in World History, and Mr. Siegel was talking to us about some European queen, and I guess her official title was Regina, only he wasn’t saying it like “Ruh-gee-nuh.” He was saying it like “vagina” but with an R. Ruh-ji-nuh. Can you imagine?! So everyone was trying not to laugh, and then finally, thankfully, he moved on to some war because war is like 80% of what you talk about in history class. And we were all SO relieved, and then out of nowhere, Spencer said, “Regina.” Only he said it really loudly. And people snickered a little. And then he said it again. And again. And I knew it was just a tic, but everyone in class was laughing. Mr. Siegel asked him to stop it, and he kind of did for a minute, but then it was like I could see steam coming out of his ears, and he just kept saying it. And Mr. Siegel was all, “If you say that one more time, you’re going to the office.” And Spencer was all, “Mr. Siegel, you know I can’t—REGINA.” And all the guys that make fun of Spencer were laughing like crazy when he packed up his stuff. I thought it was going to get worse, like with them teasing him and stuff. But then at lunch, they came over to our table and kept slapping him on the back and telling him how “epic” it was. Oh, and they kept calling him “S-man.” I’m telling you, it’s a miracle I didn’t puke all over my processed macaroni and cheese.
So yeah, AND THEN, Spencer tells me he’s going to try out for wrestling. Like out of nowhere. I don’t even know what this world is coming to. Oh, but guess what! I’m trying out for track this spring! Okay, gotta go because Dad is calling me for dinner!
XOXO,
Hope